All a matter of Perception
by the. one. who. won't. give. up
Summary: Clarence Woodfield had no clue how dangerous the stunning scenery of Cornwall could be...Until now. Invited to his employers funeral, for no particular reason, he beings to feel as if something doesn't quite sit right, something doesn't quite seem...normal. As he discovers more about his late employer he finds himself going deeper and deeper.Flames will be used to cook meat:)))))))


Copyrighted!

An Extract From a Gothic Mystery Novel: Mirror, Mirror

Scratched in some places, the pane was peppered with small splashes of black that slowly faded into a murky brown. Patterns from the pushing of insistent fingers against its icy surface had decorated the view. Its hard plane was now coated in a thin film of mist, streaked by the droplets of water tearing through the moist veil. The smoke plumes peered through the windows of the carriages and slithered around the train. For the series of carriages that hurtled across the country, the six-hour passage from Swanscombe to Penzance was simply a flurry of looming trees and a slowly darkening mist. I wrapped my travelling cloak more tightly around me in an attempt to defend myself against the tendrils of glacial breezes. My very breath turned to a mocking vapour before my eyes, obscuring my vision and filling my mouth with the taste of damp leather and coal fumes. Every breath was a chore. I huffed peevishly, failing to override the tense atmosphere in the empty compartment. Not even the wind had a word to say to me it seemed.

I was quite alone. Armed with a family name, which no longer carries any weight in society; the prospect of my name being so much as whispered amongst established families seemed unlikely. So when the Basset family, a well-known family with one of the most opaque reputations in the county had asked me to attend my own employer's funeral (with whom I rarely spoke) I had been unnerved.

Left standing with a small travelling bag, an unread newspaper rolled under my arm and an empty station, I had no accompaniment except a thick, white haze attempting misguide me on my way. My head bowed, I made my way for the road before shortly finding my path blocked by a creature that upon further inspection seemed to be a man. The shadows under his eyelids hung down like lead weights and the grime that seemed to line the contours on his face appeared to be permanently etched on to his dogged scowl. I cleared my throat, feebly trying to portray my trembling hands and wide eyes as offence. He stared at me blankly. His dull eyes, the colour of melting ice on the road, bored into mine,

'Woodfield."

His voice, no more than a rasping whisper, seemed to linger in the air, and for a moment I was unable to respond.

'I…I'm sorry?"

The sight of blackened teeth giving way to a hopeful yellow sent my foot backwards and I had to regain my balance. He smiled strangely at me.

"Clarence Woodfield…"

He let my name roll off of his tongue where it dripped thickly like tar. I straightened up. I was not going to be intimidated by a defenceless man with no shoes to protect him against the filth of the streets. The sight of him should have provoked an image of pity or kindness towards him, but I felt nothing but confusion towards those eyes, as grey and dismal as the sky above.

The carriage ride was uncomfortable. The hard seats provided no comfort from the cobbles that the driver rushed over in his hurried attempt to steer the chaise and four over the damp road. To add to my discomfort, the man from the train station kept his eyes trained on me the entire way, watching every shift of my eyes and every twitch of my face. I decided I would rather have this man as a friend rather than an enemy.

"I...ah…I don't believe I caught your name earlier," I stumbled in my attempt to make his acquaintance.

"That'd be'cause I'dnt say it," he remarked. I shrunk down in my seat further and resigned myself to the remaining half hour of deafening silence and shifty glances.

The manor was, in itself, rather like how I imagined Mr Basset. Its tall, looming figure gave shame to everything else and cast a shadow over any figures surrounding it - not that there were many - simply the tall trees and overgrown shrubbery to intimidate. The carriage I had just come from had vanished with the violent wind and the man I met at the train station was gone. For the first time since our unfortunate encounter I began to miss the creature, but it seemed even the birds had deserted this place.

What does that tell you? You should have stayed in London, made some unfortunate business, even scheduled a doctor's appointment. Now look where your lack of intelligence has landed you: in some disturbing, rotting, old manor house of a dead man.

Throughout my angered monologue I climbed the steep steps to the top of the entrance. From the large stack of keys I had been given I chose a large, antique silver key polished in some places due to common use, and in others encrusted with dirt. It was the key to the Basset Manor.

The portraits that hung the wall were inscrutable through the layers of accumulated filth that covered the ancestors of the Basset family. The raucous calm of the house gave an accurate image of the family: many in number, but so few in words. When they had been in contact with me not three weeks back to inform me of my employers passing, I was surprised to hear that I (who had barely spoke to the man in my four years of occupation under him) was invited to stay at the man's infamous manor with nothing more than a few words, not even a greeting. The suddenness of this action made me ponder the need to have me so abruptly involved with a community I had not yet met. The dark doorways seemed to lead off into a catacomb of corridors and unknown territory, leaving only a small spotlight on the floor where I was standing.

The house was as cold as the train. After an involuntary inspection of only a few rooms and a brief glance of the ground floor I carefully chose a small guest bedroom, one with may windows that would always receive the light of the sun during the day and could foresee any unwelcome visitors to the house. I scoffed at my own protectiveness. By the way I was acting it was as if I was at war with the house. I flung open the velvet curtains that dripped to the floor. My empty cough echoed around the empty hallways and passageways and died out soon after. Through the murky glass and beyond my own faint reflection, I could see the deep flush of the October sun being dragged below the slowly darkening horizon a rosy blush and streaks of blood lining the sky. The earth swallowed the last rays and I stared longingly out of the window for the comfort the morning light brought in comparison to my tiny flickering flame.

Then it reached me. Echoing through passageways and empty hallways. A sound-such a simple sound. A cough. _My_ cough.

I reeled around from the window, my eyes as wide as saucers. I had heard the cough fade a good few minutes past; I definitely had…hadn't I?

The echo reverberated around my head, filling my conscious thoughts with a child's nightmares. A small part of my subconscious seemed to be fighting the losing battle in my head in an attempt to convince myself that it was only my imagination, only my delusion, only my dream. My every footstep towards the door made the floorboards creak. My every trembling breath resembled a roar.

Suitably armed, I made my way cautiously to the door. The doorknob twisted smoothly and I was able to shuffle step by slow step down the hall. The most logical thing to do would have been to check all of the rooms, to explore the catacomb of hallways. Instead I felt drawn, enticed to the room at the end of the corridor. The door was different from the others. The door flickered red through the fiery flushes of the dim light of the candle, its gold handle polished, and its pathway clear of the general layer of dust that settled in a cruel clasp over the house. Candlestick held aloft, there was a burning madness in my chest, a slight insanity that worried me. Nevertheless I made my way to the room slowly and reached for the doorknob. It seemed someone had saved me the trouble. The door was already open.

My nerves scampered down the hall and back to the safety of my temporary bed, but with the childlike notion of adventure I ploughed on. The door opened without so much as a creak and hit an object behind me as I let it fall from my grasp. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust. The light was not very bright, but I had been left in darkness since the day's passing. It was as if its young inhabitants had just left yesterday running out of the room in a childish excitement. The rocking horse was not swinging but its beady eyes followed me as I examined the room. The dolls smiled at me. A smile so familiar I could have sworn I had seen it before… of course I had, for those were the smiles of the Basset family. The house seemed dead, a forgotten legacy. But this room was so out of place, out of fashion compared to the rest of the house. It seemed so alive, resonating and humming with the joy of a child, but the chill of a lost bedtime story. Its walls led to a narrowed point in the structure of the house. Its lifeless inhabitants seemed to examine me, like a piece of art for sale as I moved towards it. A mirror was lying in the corner, upright and at my head height. My face was distorted in the image. I could define nothing, but signs: the cruel curl of my lips and the cold glint in my eye. I took a step backwards and shook my head to rid myself of all ridiculous pretences.

I spoke aloud hoping the familiar sound of my own voice could drive back the uncanny sensation creeping up my back

One night in this godforsaken house and look where it has landed you!

I stumbled backwards rubbing my forehead. Catching my foot on the previously empty path to the centre of the room and I landed on my back. The fall knocked the wind out of me, my shuffling and scraping in my attempt to raise myself was muffled, instantaneously replaced by a high pitched sound screaming in my ears.

I looked around to find the criminal who had tripped me up, but found nothing but a crucifix; a plain and wooden cross with no decoration. The sight of it reassured me. That was until I picked it up. It was broken, quite cleanly down the middle, the splinters sticking up like thorns from the wood. The empty pit of my stomach was now filled with churning bile. I looked around me in the hope of some escape. The room was spinning too fast. My heart was pumping into overdrive. My lungs inhaling until I thought that they would burst. I squeezed my eyes shut. Then it stopped. I was left facing the mirror. Frowning at the sight, I checked my position. I was on my knees as if praying in the pews, my hands slowly slipping off my face. Scratched in some places, the pane was peppered with small splashes of black that slowly faded into a murky brown. Smeared patterns from the pushing of insistent fingers against its icy, calloused surface had decorated the view. I was not breaking down on my knees, I was not staring bewildered before myself as I expected. No, through the chips and scratches on the reflective surface, it was quite clear to see that the reflection I was given was clearly not mine. I looked around. My eyes widened slowly. The man in the mirror smiled down at me. The man in the mirror reached out to me. The man in the mirror was I.


End file.
